


Reinvent Yourself

by literalmetaphor



Category: Lovely Little Losers, Nothing Much to Do
Genre: AU, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 20:22:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4493421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literalmetaphor/pseuds/literalmetaphor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is dealing with Ben and Beatrice and what it means that he's not actually having that hard of a time with it at all. Just something I wrote because I have Pedrazar angst problems. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reinvent Yourself

_Reinvent yourself._

And that was the only reason he’d be _here_. Peter was a sweaters and khakis sort of guy, not a leather and skinny jeans sort. But this whole store was chains and black and – generally terrifying, really. Really, leather _pants_? Did people actually do this?

_But reinvent yourself, right?_

Really – what else was he supposed to do when the biggest dick around asked out Beatrice Duke – his crush and friend of near ten years? And she said yes. Independent, feminist, ‘no-relationship-especially-no-men’ Beatrice Duke said yes. To Benedick Hobbes.

And really, Benedick was _awful_. Loud and clamoring and annoying. The sort of person who was so ridiculous that Peter was content in thinking, ‘well, I can’t possibly be that bad.’ At least, until Benedick made a move on his childhood friend, who’d rejected his requests for dates multiple times, and she went for it.

Honestly, _everyone_ _but Peter_ seemed to have some unspoken fondness for Benedick – like all his obnoxious pranks and mindless conversation made him _endearing_. So endearing that Beatrice Duke would date him.

Maybe she really liked _birds_ , since that seemed to be the only steady conversation anyone could hold with Benedick Hobbes that didn’t dissolve into insults or bad one-liners.

God, and Beatrice never-wrong-never-content Duke and Benedick not-listening-just-talking Hobbes together – really, honestly, the worst sort of combination. How were _all_ their friends not out buying leather pants?

But it was just Peter, just Peter gritting his teeth and walking out of a harmless get-togethers, just Peter that had everyone thinking, ‘poor thing, he loves Beatrice so much.’

Except no. He didn’t. Sure, he was annoyed that Ben had succeeded where he’d failed, but he didn’t have the sort of heartbreak that he ought to have when the love of his life was swept into the arms of the neighborhood dick.

No, he was reinventing himself because his pride was, admittedly, wrecked, but mostly because he wasn’t all that broke up about Beatrice Duke. Which was – well. He’d figured he’d liked her since they were sixteen, and seeing as he was now _twenty-three_ , well – it was a bit of a shock to just _be over it._ You define yourself by liking someone, and then one day, oops, no, nevermind.

His phone vibrated in his pocket, another faculty these leather pants didn’t have. He dug it out, raised an eyebrow at the number.

Beatrice, of course.

_Hey Peter, what was with the dramatic exit?_

Bea was the only one who didn’t make it about her. Probably only outwardly, though. She must know about ‘poor Peter.’ Hero must have said something.

He sneered at the pocketless pants in front of him, black and meant only for Ken dolls, like it was their fault. He slammed his fingers over the screen so that auto-correct offered the very helpful suggestion, _Balthazar_.

As though that was a word people used in every day conversation. He sighed, backspaced, and typed a response.

_Sorry friend needed me_

_Oh okay, well you coming to the pub tonight? Ursula’s going to be there ;)_

Okay, so the one thing worse than everyone thinking he wanted to be with Beatrice, was everyone thinking that he needed to be with another girl. Ursula was great, but really.

_Pretty sure shes got a thing for your cousin_

_WhatEVER just come Peter, there will be plenty of ladies! I’ll be your wingwoman!_

No. No, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t want a wing woman. He didn’t want to see Benedick and Bea bickering until Bea stole his phone, refusing to return it until he started tickling her. He didn’t want to hear Benedick saying, “Peter – Pete, my man, my brother, you know what you need? You need a lady, and that’s what we’re gonna get ya.”

_Yeah sure I’ll be there. 7 right?_

But he never did know how to say no to Beatrice.

_Yeah! Thanks, Pete!_ _J_

That settled it.

The leather pants had to come with him. Because no one could steal phones or tickle people when their formerly normal friend showed up in leather pants. They already thought he was melting down. Might as well seal the deal. He bought the pants and a pull-over three sizes too small for him, red and striped and a thousand shades of too much. Good.

He went back to his flat, brimming with the idea of Bea’s face. She would _lose it_. She’d likely have a hundred nasty things to say, but deep down, she’d be shocked – and it was quite a feat to shock Beatrice Duke.

The hours ticked by slowly, like they always did when something exciting was about to happen. And then it was six pm, and he grabbed the leather pants – and wow, he should have started this earlier. The pants stopped at his calves and threw him to the floor of his flat like a poorly executed action sequence.

He’d never had to fight with his pants before, but if he was going to do this – he couldn’t let the pants win. He was better than this. He was Peter Donaldson, and maybe he’d lost the girl to Benedick Hobbes, but he would not lose his dignity to leather pants.

He kicked and flailed, imagined this must be something what spaghetti felt like, until he got the pants on. Maybe his legs were still there, maybe they weren’t – didn’t matter, the pants were. The pullover was easier, didn’t squeeze quite as much, and then he didn’t bother gelling his hair. He always gelled his hair, so he didn’t – he was a changed man.

He didn’t need gel anymore. He had leather pants.

He adjusted the clothes, waddled about the room for a bit. Wow. That was sexy. Peter Donaldson – also known as Donald fecking Duck. He pulled and stretched and lunged – a montage accompanied by _Eye of the Tiger_ in his head. He was going to need physical therapy, but he got his legs working right, and the pants loosened when they realized that he wasn’t that malleable. He stared into his mirror – all he needed was eyeliner.

He’d have worn it, if he had any. But he didn’t, so he could just be normal Peter face compressed into hip, new, trash compactor clothing. He tugged at the outfit a little longer, glanced at the clock. Oh shit. It was already five past seven. He grabbed his coat and headed down the street – walking not waddling.

The walk was a few blocks, so at 7:13, Bea texted, _Peter you better not be asleep I’ll tear off your stupid face_

_I’m not asleep I’m on the way_

And then Benedick texted, _some cute birds here Peter you better hurryyyyyy_

Birds? Birds. Always with the birds. He didn’t answer because however Benedick had gotten his number was through a series of truly cruel circumstances. The pub was a small place, somewhere he and Bea used to go all the time, before he’d introduced her to Ben. They had live music, and sometimes, it didn’t make him want to rip out his ears.

They were all gathered around a small table in the corner. Easy to spot because Benedick was perched up on the table talking like he was doing a stand-up comedy routine. Beatrice turned and grinned when she saw him. “Peter, there you are!” She bounded towards him, wrapped her arms around his neck. “Really – you could have at least said bye earlier, you dick.”

She was still hugging him, and he patted her a few times before she realized it was awkward, then she leapt back, grinding her heel into the floor. “Uh, well, sorry about the…”

“No, don’t…”

“I just didn’t… it’s not like…”

“It’s fine, Bea.”

And then she looked up, started to smile, and then her face twisted in horror. Her eyes and nose scrunched into each other, eyebrows crinkled and angry, mouth fully open. “What the hell, Peter?”

He blinked, pretended he wasn’t entirely satisfied with himself. “What?”

“Peter – Pete, Petey, Peteson, Peteinso.” Benedick took a few steps towards him, grinning, until his eyes dropped to the outfit. “Pete-ants. Wow, pants. What’s going on – did you get mobbed by a tarp, Pete, what’s with the tights?”

He stood back, looked them over, Bea in her tight white shirt and jeans, and Ben in his band t-shirt. They really were a good match – they didn’t mean to, but they matched. Because neither of them _cared_.

“Guess so,” he said and ignored them both when they exchanged glances.

He walked over to the rest of the group. Ursula, Meg, Hero. Their faces were all of assorted shock, and Bea and Ben took a few seconds before they followed him back to the table. “Seriously, Pete – what the hell?” Bea slammed her hand on the table.

“I’m reinventing myself.”

“To what? Some sort of hipster sexy thing?” Ben asked. “Seriously, those pants must be a size 0. You can get blood clots like this, Petey.”

“Don’t call me Petey,” Peter said. “And I’m trying out new styles. This is the first.”

Meg laughed, slapped a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve finally snapped, Peter. But you’ve embraced it. You didn’t just fall off that cliff, you full sprint leapt off it – and I respect you for that.”

He shrugged her off, mouth curving into a hard frown. The shock was fun, but now everyone was adjusting to it, and he was very over the pants and his friends. “I’ll get you a drink, Peter,” Ben said. “You really need one, apparently.” He hailed a waitress and ordered a beer without asking Peter what he wanted.

Peter pulled himself onto one of the stools, looked around the pub. Tons of people, which was expected on a Friday night. Everyone was unwinding from work, laughing and happy and not wearing pants way too small. Why had he thought this was a good idea? Maybe he really had leapt right off whatever cliff Meg was on about.

At least the music was alright.

Or more than alright – much better than usual. A soft sort of hum, like a buzzing, like they were covering Mumford and Sons, but it didn’t sound like anything Peter had heard from them.

“You’re – you’re wearing leather pants, Peter. I mean, really? Really?” Beatrice asked.

He laughed, or tried, it came out like a chuckle. “Beatrice, will you just – can we just move on?”

“I just want to understand why you’ve decided to strangle yourself from the waist up! I’m your friend – I deserve that much!”

He rolled his eyes. Beatrice was substantially less tolerable when she was around Ben. They rubbed off on one another – some people thought it was cute, Peter thought it was nauseating. “Can you not make this awkward?”

“Me? You’re wearing leather pants!”

“Oh, Beatrice. Leave him alone.” Hero put her hand on her cousin’s shoulder, smiling with that sort of sunflower smile. “I think it’s cool that you’re… experimenting, Peter,” Hero said.

He nodded. Hero was nice to everyone – he had no idea what was actually going on in her head, really. No one could be that nice all the time, right?

“With _death_!” Beatrice added.

The waitress came back, placed a beer in front of him that smelled like dog piss. Peter managed a begrudging, “Thanks, Ben.”

Smoke and lights made him sick to his stomach, or maybe it was the pants – he was starting to think a fire had started inside them.

“So Peter – a little birdy told me that you were looking to find a lovely lady to go home with tonight,” Ben said, sliding onto the stool next to him.

“Well, a little birdy lied to you,” Peter answered.

“No, no, no, no, Peter! Come on. It’s pretty clear that you’ve turned into a sad little sack, and we really need to pull you out of this funk! Look at your choices!”

Maybe Ben felt bad because he thought he’d stolen Beatrice, or maybe he was just this infuriating all the time and Peter had never noticed before. Peter really didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. “Just don’t,” he said.

This was more frustrating than usual, like the pants were squeezing him too tight and making everything feel wrong. Every time Peter looked at Beatrice, something churned inside his stomach. A hollowness, because he knew it, then. Beatrice was everything he wanted in a girl. Smart, pretty, independent, witty. He loved her – in a way entirely separate from romantic feelings. And if he couldn’t make it work with a girl like Beatrice, then who could he make it work with?

“You okay, Pete?” Ben said, apparently developing some kind of acknowledgement in the world around him. Peter would just assume he didn’t.

“Fine.”

“Oh, hey, there’s April – she lives in the same flat as you, Peter!” Meg said, pointing and gesturing so that half the pub turned to look at her. “She’s hot – almost as hot as me, come on, Peter, no more sulking. Put yourself out there!”

“I’m not sulking.” The words came out louder than he’d intended. It wasn’t just the pants that were burning and squeezing and killing him – it was all of this, like there was nowhere for him to go. Like he was alone in a cramped glass box with people shouting on the other side of it.

Another song started – the music felt like the only thing that wasn’t making an effort to wrap around his throat and squeeze. He glanced at the stage. A little red-haired girl was on drums, a brown-skinned man with black hair played bass – and, suddenly his pants were eight degrees more stifling. The guy on guitar – singing.

Peter flushed, tugged at his pants. The deep, high-pitched growl seemed bizarre coming out of that tiny mouth. He had a too-big suit jacket thrown over a black t-shirt – and he looked distant, like he wasn’t in the pub at all. Peter wanted to be there. Wherever he was. He just wanted to go to wherever those eyes’ were and listen to his voice forever.

His eyes slid to the board that said the name of the band – Three Wise Men. Cliché, but at least the woman gave them a little bit of a twist. They were good too – really good. _He_ was really good. Wow.

Peter couldn’t really make out the lyrics, or he wasn’t, anyway – he was just staring and listening. But the sound wasn’t something that needed lyrics, his mouth wasn’t something that had to be making words –

“Earth to Peter!” Bea slapped his shoulder at the same moment his mind slammed the brakes.

What was he doing?

“Sorry, I was just, yeah.” He cleared his throat, tossed back a drink of the piss beer that Ben had gotten him. “What’s up?”

“Other than your pants, mate?” Ben asked, chuckling like it was a secret joke.

“Oh, let it go,” Meg said. “He’s wearing sexy pants – he wants to be sexy. There isn’t a thing wrong with that!” She gestured to her outfit, tight jeans and sparse shirt, worse when she twirled. Peter smiled, though – leave it to Meg to be the one who gave it her approval.

“Thanks, Meg,” he said.

She winked at him. Oh no. That was all it took. Ben was looking at Bea – Hero was pursing her lips and giggling into Ursula’s shoulder. This group of friends was like a cage of salivating lions, only instead of wanting meat – they wanted to set up everyone. Ben once called them Love Gods – more like Love Addicts.

“Guys, stop. No.”

“What?” Ben said, throwing a hand to his chest like Peter had insulted his mother. “We weren’t saying anything, Petey.” A smirk was creeping onto his face, and Peter considered punching it off.

“Uh, I know you guys aren’t thinking about me and Peter as anything other than mates,” Meg said. She pulled herself onto a stool, rolled her eyes. “Because, that’s not happening, really.”

“Really,” Peter echoed.

No one believed them because they apparently existed in a matchmaking vacuum where words meant nothing if they could just nail someone with an arrow.

“So, what made you decide on leather, Peter? I’m not trying to pry or anything – just curious. It’s actually a great aesthetic. I could do a great photoshoot,” Ursula said.

_They’ll think we’re dating Ursula, please stop._

“You could do a great photoshoot about anything, though, Ursula,” Hero said.

And then Urusula was blushing and squeaking and doing all the things that one actually does when they have feelings for another person.

The night devolved into Bea and Ben giggling and fighting, not even leather pants could deter them. Peter talked to Meg, since Ursula and Hero were off on their own continent. Meg talked about the magazine she wrote for, and Peter listened as much as he could with his eyes pinned on that singer.

His hair was thick, all messed on top of his head, and he was too small for his clothes, too small for everything – even the guitar was too big for him. Every time Peter looked up there, he smiled. If Meg noticed, she didn’t say anything, just kept talking about writing.

Until one time, those eyes snapped back to the pub and right into Peter’s. He blushed, inexplicably, like he’d been doing something horrible. But there was nothing wrong with watching the singer of the band that was performing. All the blood in his cheeks disagreed.

He didn’t look away, though – like if he moved it would draw even more attention to the terrible thing he was apparently doing. A smile twisted onto the singer’s lips, quiet and small, like the rest of him, a tiny little smirk before his teeth flashed for just one moment and something deep inside Peter _snapped_.

Every system in his body stopped and started flowing in another direction – nerves clawing the inside of his skin, straight into his mouth, stomach inside out, eating his insides instead of the nasty beer. Even his eyes malfunctioned, showing him flashes of light that he knew weren’t there. He choked on a sip the beer that he’d apparently taken.

Meg jumped back, eyebrows shooting up. “Whoa, Peter. You alright?” She looked up at the stage for a second, then back to him, before she tilted her head.

“Yeah, I’m fine – just, just went down the wrong way, that’s all.”

The singer wasn’t looking anymore, but Peter would swear that smirk was still there – in the lyrics, in his eyes. “Were you checking out the singer?”

“What? No.” He laughed, or choked, or both. “Of course not.”

“You alright?” Ben leaned over, looking thoughtfully into Peter’s face and handing Meg a napkin since apparently Peter had gotten beer on her.

Peter winced. “Sorry, Meg.” Then he sighed. “Fine, Ben, thanks.”

“His name’s Balthazar,” Ben said, basically shouted.

“Ben—” Peter opened his mouth to snap about the volume, and then his insides reversed again, and something shot straight down his spine, clenching his hands. “Balthazar?”

“Yeah, you know, like the Wise Men. Melchior, Caspar, and Balthazar. He’s Balthazar.” Ben grinned. “Friend of mine. He’s good, right?”

Balthazar – like on his phone. _Oh, knock it off, Peter – let’s not turn into a superstitious idiot._ He sighed, ignoring the slash of anger that Ben knew this guy too. Not that it mattered. “He’s alright.”

“Oh, now that’s just not fair. Balthazar’s _amazing_ – I mean, listen to him, it’s like listening to honey. He’s brilliant, and I won’t have you saying differently.”

Peter laughed, and his animosity dissolved into contentment. “Okay, fine, he’s brilliant.”

Meg finished wiping herself down with the napkin, put her chin in her hands. “Okay, well, just don’t be so overcome by his brilliance that you throw up on my shoes again please.”

“I didn’t throw up. I choked on the beer – none of that has been down my throat.”

“Whatever,” Meg said.

Peter’s eyes moved back up to the stage when the next song finished, and the singer started talking, “Okay, well, that’s it for us. Um, thanks for coming out.” He ducked his head and waved a little, nodding back to the other two. “Yeah,” he said, when people kept clapping. His eyes touched Peter’s again before he looked away. Peter jumped a little and laughed it off. Awkwardly.

They packed up, and Peter sighed. Well, that was that. He wasn’t going to be meeting up with anymore of Ben’s friends. He watched them walk out, watched another band start setting up. But that smile – that voice – that everything. His fingers drummed on the table, listening to the conversation.

What was this?

The song. He liked the song. He should ask. He should ask if it was Mumford and Sons. So he could download it. He looked once at Beatrice, eyes flicking across the table, and then he was jumping off the stool, falling to the sounds of Bea’s confusion. Just two seconds.

He sprinted out into the night – having not even the slightest clue where the band would have gone, or if they’d be gone. He stepped onto the sidewalk, spun around – nothing. Damn. He sighed – really, what was the big deal about the song anyway? He didn’t need…

“Are you lost?”

He jumped at the voice, twisted, almost fell over. “Oh, uh, yeah – I, I mean, no, I was just, uh…” What was he supposed to ask again? “I, ah… fresh air, and – and all that.”

“Right, yeah.”

They both nodded, a lot, a full five seconds of nodding, before Balthazar waved his hand mildly and started back around the building to his life that had nothing to do with Peter.

Peter seized and blurted, “I’m Peter – by the way. Peter Donaldson.”

Balthazar turned back around, smiled, laughed so that it showed his teeth and did one, exaggerated nod. “Nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Stanley.” Peter stuck out his hand, and Stanley took it – Balthazar suited him so much better – but the hand fit so nicely inside his that he didn’t care. “Friends call me Balthazar, sometimes, I guess.” He looked away, eyes shifting awkwardly.

Peter grinned. “Yeah, well – nice to meet you, ah?”

“Stanley’s fine.”

“Not friends, then,” Peter said, lowering his pitch – almost flirty. He flushed, cleared his throat. “Your songs were good – I mean, in there.” He gestured to the pub with his head.

“Oh, right – right, thanks.” Balthazar smiled again.

Their hands didn’t release – they stayed locked, hands and eyes, until the horrifying moment when Peter cleared his throat and stumbled back. “Uh, right, sorry then.”

“You alright, Peter?” He said Peter’s name so softly and so quietly that suddenly the leather pants weren’t tight anymore – suddenly they fit perfectly.

Peter rubbed the back of his head, kicked at the sidewalk a little. “Ah, yeah, I’m alright. Just friends and stuff, you know.” This poor, random stranger didn’t deserve to have to listen about all his drama.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“I don’t usually dress like this, by the way. I, well – I’m trying to reinvent myself, or something.” He explained it like Balthazar must absolutely be worried about his wardrobe. _I don’t dress like a sad teenager_ all _the time._

The words drew a laugh, which settled his stomach a little. “Oh, well, thanks. They’re alright, though – I mean, it’s alright.”

“Is it?” Peter asked. “They’re a bit snug.”

Balthazar smiled. “Isn’t that the point?”

“Guess so.” He looked up. “It’s – well, there was this girl, and I, I guess I liked her or something, and then my friend, this complete arse, asked her out – and she said yes. And that sucked and all, but mostly I’m realizing she was kind of it, for me, for women, and I’m not all that broke up about it. So I’m feeling kind of messed up, I guess.” Balthazar’s blue eyes were wide, eyebrows shooting into the sandy brown hair still raised too high off his head. Peter rubbed the back of his neck. “Ah, I’m sorry. I dunno why I’m telling you this.”

“It’s alright,” Balthazar said. “Well, maybe it’s not just girls, then, yeah?”

“What?”

“I mean, maybe it’s guys too – maybe it’s everything.”

Peter’s heart started pounding, like that had been the cue – the cue to restart the symphony orchestra inside his chest. He could feel it in his mouth, feel it pulsing from the small features of the young man in front of him. “Yeah – yeah, I hadn’t – I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

“It’s alright.” Balthazar looked at the ground, fiddled with his sleeves that came all the way over his hands. “I don’t like girls at all.” He shifted, throwing his palm up. “Since we were sharing and all.”

“You don’t?” Peter asked. “So what do you like?” _Way to be nosy, Peter._

“I dunno,” Balthazar said. “Guys, I guess.”

“Oh.” And the word went all the way down to his feet, turning on every switch and bulb that he had inside of him. Peter tried to shake himself, pull himself back to Earth, but no luck. “Oh, well, that’s cool. I mean, guys are nice.”

Especially when they’re small with tiny features and growling voices that Peter had to strain to hear.

The two of them stood there, frozen, until Balthazar laughed just a little. He gestured, took a step back. “My band’s… and all that.”

“Right, yeah, right.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

“Maybe.”

He started to walk away, and Peter’s feet followed – like they were mechanical and someone was somewhere else pushing the buttons to make them go. Balthazar noticed, turned.

Peter winced, said, “Would it be cool if I, I mean – you can say no, but I want to, if I wanted to, you know – see.”

“About guys?” Balthazar inclined his head just a bit. Peter shuffled, tried not to smile sheepishly because really – he should be mortified.

“About you.”

“Me?” Balthazar asked.

Peter took an extra step so that they were standing within an inch of each other. “Do you mind? I’ve never…”

Balthazar laughed, incredulous – louder than his other tiny laughs. “What, um, kiss me? You mean?”

“Yeah,” Peter said, breathless and awkward.

“Okay.”

He’d never kissed a guy – and it had been a while since he’d kissed anyone. But the movement came naturally.

He brushed his fingers along Balthazar’s jawline, brushing until his thumb swept across soft, brown hair. He could feel a quiet tremble through Balthazar, and then he lowered his head, closed his eyes, and kissed him. Their lips touched once, deep and sharp – and Balthazar drew in a breath, fingers clamping around Peter’s wrist.

The lips tasted like something undefined, a taste that sprang through his mouth so fast and rang a hundred bells in his brain he couldn’t capture it.

Peter pressed harder, grasping with his mouth, and their mouths met again – opening and closing, until they stopped at a final close. A lingering, quiet thing that soaked into the air around them. Peter’s hand slid away from Balthazar’s hair, gliding down the back of his neck. He held it when he opened his eyes into wide, blue, confused ones.

“How was it?” Balthazar whispered, like he was frozen in place.

Peter thought about stepping back, laugh, step back, act cool about the fact that he’d just kissed a guy – except he wasn’t cool, something like fireworks were going off in his head. “Yeah,” Peter said.

Balthazar blinked.

“I like guys. I like, well, it helped. Thanks.”

Balthazar shook off the moment, smiled a tight-lipped smile again, shy and turned away a bit. “Right, well.”

“Well.”

“Stanley!” The red-haired girl stomped around the corner, all tensed and angry. Peter winced a little. “It’s cold out here – let’s go! I’m starving!”

Balthazar looked back at her. “Sorry, Fred!” He flushed when he turned to face Peter again. “I, uh, I – well.”

“I’ll see you around,” Peter said. “Thanks, Stanley.”

“Balthazar’s fine,” he said, wringing his hands.

Peter grinned as Balthazar walked off, apologizing again to Fred. Yeah, leather pants were definitely his new thing.


End file.
